


Yours to Keep

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [6]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sibling Incest, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “Please,” says Taiga. “Forgive yourself. Forgive me.”





	Yours to Keep

**Author's Note:**

> for saso br1, original prompt [here](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10606610#cmt10606610)
> 
> i may continue this later idk

Some nights, Tatsuya wakes up with the stink of rust clogging his nose and mouth, waves of nausea passing through but never cutting the way the blood seems to spill out of not-nowhere and clog his throat, cut through his field of vision like he’s there all over again, like this time he’s Taiga. He’s the one who should have died, the one who had raised his bow to kill, bared his fangs, taken the trust Taiga had given him and stabbed it through the ribcage until it was sticky with blood and guts, until the shock of Taiga’s face had seared onto Tatsuya’s brain, that he’d branded himself like a cow for slaughter rather than butchering his brother.  
  
It is his own blood spilled, in every sense (he thinks, back to the days when they were children and threw around words so carelessly, imitating adults—blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh—that he would say and Taiga would repeat, parroting at first before his lips could make their way around the syllables, until he was old enough to be the one stealing kisses from Tatsuya instead of the other way around). Every sense but for the one that counts, the one who saw his own blood spill from his front, felt it drain from his face and shaking hands. He’s perverting the idea of death to compare the two, and yet. Taiga’s blood is his blood; Taiga is—not him, not his, always better, always uncontainable, always shining with the brilliance of a sharpened cleaver under the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window.  
  
Taiga was—Tatsuya has to get used to saying it, but never can; it twists his tongue and his stomach even though it’s his fault, his choice, his strike, his blade, his bed, Taiga sleeping safe in his arms. It had been difficult to do, but difficult is a cute little word that does not convey the idea or the meaning. Taiga was, but now Taiga is again, risen, alive. He shines eerie in the moonlight, but it’s him; it’s the same eyes and the same arms and the same words. It’s the same love he gives to Tatsuya, the same faith and trust—but what’s Tatsuya going to do, kill him again? Taiga has nothing to lose; haunting Tatsuya only makes him stronger.  
  
“I love you,” he says.   
  
He places Tatsuya’s palm on the hole in his sternum, whispering the words softer; the scar tissue is soft and Tatsuya’s having trouble not flinching, not crying.   
  
His mouth is metallic and sour, the blood in Tatsuya’s throat, coating his lips; Tatsuya coughs on the air and pushes back, clawing at Taiga’s chest, ripping at skin.  
  
“Tatsuya? Tatsuya, hey.”  
  
Taiga’s voice is soft, his hand firm on Tatsuya’s back. The scratch marks on his chest are white, no blood; Tatsuya exhales and hangs his head, dragging his gaze away from the scars. His knees are touching Taiga’s where they sit, Taiga’s bed. The sheets are clean and dark.   
  
“Tatsuya.”   
  
His fingers are pushing up under Tatsuya’s shirt, at the small of his back. There is only shame in showing his torso, unmarked but for a few moles and tattoos, nothing large and messy and hollow, nothing to show for his own pain.   
  
“Is this okay?”  
  
(“You can have anything,” he wants to say, “anything you want,” words that will get the better of him the way everything does when it comes to Taiga.)  
  
Tatsuya nods. Taiga kisses his cheek, and Tatsuya believes for a second that they’re five again, young and whole, in the back garden pretending the servants aren’t watching, and Taiga has picked him a bouquet of weeds, sharp leaves sticking out of the tangle of grass. They are seven and their uncle has been slain, delivered to their mother’s doorstep, and she tells Tatsuya he must always protect his younger brother, and Tatsuya’s already got Taiga’s hand in his (and Taiga’s hand is still smaller, palms still soft) and has positioned himself in front, to stop anything that tries to get near him.   
  
He’s never been able to stop himself very well.  
  
“Tatsuya,” Taiga says, urgency in his voice, just like the first time, like they are twenty again and they’ve both been holding out for so long and just hearing his name like this is all it takes for Tatsuya to surrender his will.  
  
“I’m yours,” Tatsuya says, looking again—always—for the absolution he craves but cannot take in Taiga’s eyes.  
  
“Please,” says Taiga. “Forgive yourself. Forgive me.”  
  
He kisses Tatsuya’s forehead, beneath his hairline, and Tatsuya is undone.


End file.
